


Nothin' Sweeter Than My Baby

by Eastmava



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: "I know what you smell like", Crowley has been pining for six thousand years, Kissing, M/M, Scenting, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 12:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eastmava/pseuds/Eastmava
Summary: "...were finally bared and pressed oh so close, stripped of their clothes, of the weight of their respective sides, of the responsibility of saving the world, of all the things that had kept them apart, kept them from this, from heat and skin and the pleasure of Crowley’s fingers (wicked), and his tongue (sinful), of his heated, burning gaze (reverent, worshipful, all the things Aziraphale was not worthy of, not now, not after everything they’ve done) on Aziraphale’s body..."Crowley finally gets what he's longed for.





	Nothin' Sweeter Than My Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post someone made on Tumblr about the now infamous "Not you. I know what you smell like," line.
> 
> I decided to clean up what I wrote on Tumblr and post it here.
> 
> Originally Here
> 
> I'm so excited to get to play in a fandom I've long lurked in but never wrote for before. It's been a while since I've read the book but this could very well fit into either book or show verse.

Out of all the things Aziraphale had expected when they were finally bared and pressed oh so close, stripped of their clothes, of the weight of their respective sides, of the responsibility of saving the world, of all the things that had kept them apart, kept them from this, from heat and skin and the pleasure of Crowley’s fingers (wicked), and his tongue (sinful), of his heated, burning gaze ( _reverent, worshipful, all the things Aziraphale was not worthy of, not now, not after everything they’ve done_ ) on Aziraphale’s body, this was certainly not one of them.

Crowley’s fingers bite into the flesh of his thighs, holding them open, cradling them apart, spread to make room for his thin chest to settle between them, pried apart as though Aziraphale would not willing part them, as if he had not sighed and trembled and gasped ‘yes, yes, oh Crowley, oh my dear,’ when Crowley had cupped the cock that has sat limp and useless in Aziraphale’s pants for the past six thousand years until the feel of Crowley, laying pressed on top of him, had finally given it a reason to stir.

He had, in fact, been rather excited to find exactly what particular new things his cock could be used for, Crowley’s breath damp and humid against it as his lips parted, until suddenly he had twisted and instead buried his nose in the tender, fleshy fold where thigh met body and simply _breathed_.

A long, low, shuddering breath that rattled in him so much Aziraphale could feel it shake his chest where his thighs pressed against it.

Crowley only looks up when he reaches a hand down to touch his hair, worried and cautious, because while he had no practical experience he has spent six millennia around humans and Aziraphale has _some_ idea how this is supposed to go and he was quite sure (pretty sure, _mostly sure_ ) that it involved a little more touching of sensitive bits and a little less inhaling.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley breathes out, and he sounded torn apart, shredded, wrecked. _Devastated_.

The eyes he turns toward him are filled with something Aziraphale doesn’t have a word for, only knows that it makes something deep inside his chest _ache_ for Crowley.

“My dear, Crowley, please, whatever it is-“ he starts, but does not know how to end the words. “Crowley,” he says again, the only thing he can think of, the only thing that truly matters, softly, gently, strokes his hand against the side of his face. His dear, dear face, that Aziraphale has not grown tired of looking at after six thousand years and that he can’t possibly imagine he won’t love just as much, more, in another six.

“Angel,” he drawls, and this time he sounds euphoric, the word drawn out as if he’s drunk. “You have no idea,” he continues, and then drops whatever he was going to finish the sentence with and instead tucks his face again into the crease of Aziraphale’s thigh, takes another deep, long breath.

“What don’t I have any idea about?” He asks, because while this is not what he was expecting there’s no denying the tight little shiver that skitters down Crowley’s spine, the look of complete, utter satisfaction he gives Aziraphale when he next lifts his head.

“Your smell,” he says, and Aziraphale has heard sermons read with less passion than Crowley fits into those two short words. “Oh, you have no idea. For years, centuries, Angel, _millennia_ , it was all I had of you. For so long you wouldn’t even _touch me_. You always kept your distance, and I ached for you. It was more painful than falling, every time I’d step close and you’d back away. But your smell. I was greedy for it. That was the only part of you you’d let me have.” He rakes his fingers through the thatch of golden honey curls that nestle around the base of Aziraphale’s cock, buries his nose in them and inhales deeply. “And here, oh, Angel, you smell like _heaven_.”

He feels a surge of guilt at Crowley’s words, for all the truth in them. All the times he stepped away, put distance between them even while they both sought each other out. All the times he claimed not to care for Crowley because he believed it the only way to keep Crowley safe even as he saw how much it hurt him.

But that was then. And this, this is Crowley naked against him, pressed so close, heat burning in his belly.

That was then, and this is the beginning of the rest of their lives.

“But Crowley, my dear boy. My dear Crowley. _My Crowley_. Don’t you know?” He catches Crowley’s face, his dear, dear, beloved face, between his hands and pulls him up. “Everything that I am is yours. You have _all_ of me.”

After that there’s no room for words, and if Crowley sometimes stops to breathe Aziraphale in, to steal a lungful of the scent that was all he had for so long, it doesn’t matter, there’s no sorrow in it, because each time Aziraphale kisses him, solid and warm and all his.

~End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, and if you did consider leaving a comment or a kudos.
> 
> Come hang out on Tumblr, where I have way too many feelings about these two and post about my cat.
> 
> Here


End file.
